


I long to be near you

by it_was_so_human



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, i don't even know what i'm doing anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-27 06:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_so_human/pseuds/it_was_so_human
Summary: Loving him was easy. Loving his father, however, was unbearable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by bad fake leaks and my lack of self-control.

After he joined the Night’s Watch, Sansa never imagined she would see Jon Snow hold a babe of his own.

(But she has witnessed many things since then that she never expected to see.) 

A little boy born in the North, his Dragon Queen mother dying while giving birth to him.

“Robb Snow.” Jon’s voice hitched as he croaked out his son’s last name.

War and distance and time kept him from marriage and it is not something he will ever seemingly forgive himself.

She had calmly suggested the new Baratheon King could legitimize his nephew—give him the Targaryen name—but was met with a firm refusal. There was still much unrest, and Jon had no desire for politicking and future precarious claims to any throne.

His son was safer a Snow.

He finally, reluctantly, _painfully_ , handed the fur-bundled babe to her.

Stroking his sons wrinkled brow for a last time, he murmured that there was work to do, but he would be back soon.

 _There was still work to do in the world of the living_ , but Sansa didn’t say that aloud. Let Jon escape his horrors by venturing again behind what remained of the wall.

And in doing so, leave the bundled would-be but never-to-be princeling in her arms.  
   
Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stood carrying his child in her arms as he rode away—stopping only to turn and offer a small farewell wave.

Once before he left her with his direwolf and temperamental lords, then again with diminished grain supplies and injured soldier, and now with heartache and another’s child. Jon Snow has  _always_ left her.

That he would let Catelyn Starks’ daughter care for a child not her own…

_…to raise a bastard child… one resulting in a betrayal of sorts…_

…the irony of it certainly did not escape Sansa.

It should mean something that he trusts her with something so precious, so she swallows past the hurt.

She shifts the babe in her arms, surprised how _right_ the warm weight felt against her.

Jon can leave, they all leave after all.

But she’s the Stark in Winterfell now.

\- - -

It was not fair.

What a terrible way for a story to go. Surviving so much cruelty in the world, amassing great armies and fighting great wars, only to die giving birth to her child.  

It was not right, it was not fair. It was like a bad tale written by men who did not want women to fly too far.

The woman should have been able to see her son. Smell his baby smell and hold him close to her breast.  

She did not even get a chance to give him a Targaryen name, instead her son bore the name of the man that usurped her family. (But also the name of a brother that was loved and did love dearly.)

At least little Robb was conceived of two parents in love.  
  
Jon loved the Queen, this Sansa knew. He adored her at times and hated her at others, growing frustrated as the war went on yet he always had a passionate longing for her.  
  
As a child, Jon dreamed of honor and duty and Sansa was the one who grew up dreaming of love. 

Yet the gods didn’t listen. (Sansa Stark ended up being the one _very_ good at duty.) 

She could envy Jon that love he was able to have.

She’s never felt _warmth_ with another, let alone any heat of passion.

Instead, if she is lucky, she may live as the spinster Lady of Winterfell raising his love child.

Sansa doesn’t have the respectable battle scars of war, the marks that decry bravery and strength. 

She has the scars of a young girl all alone in the world. No valiant stories here, just quiet survival.

She tries with what she has, managing the diplomacy of ruling the north. But she was no fighter, no conqueror.

Maybe if she was fiercer he would respect her. Think if her as the true Warden of the North and not just some nursemaid, not worth more than to leave his bastard with her and just–

No. No. _**No**_.

Jon would never willingly leave his son. This much she knew.

She shook her head, from bitter unnecessary thoughts—looking down to observe the child in her arms.

What a pretty babe he was, with a perfect little baby nose, pink bowed lips, and a mop of dark ringlets.

And dark violet eyes—almost black but in the firelight their true hue was undeniable

Baby Robb blinked up at her with those strangely familiar eyes, releasing a heart melting soft baby coo.

(She would never again call her perfect little nephew a _bastard_.)

\- - -

She might never have children of her own.  
  
There was no man she wanted to make her Lord Husband, no need of a courtly knight to protect her.

No desire, not yet. If she could rule without one, she would.  
  
She was the lone Stark in Winterfell. Her brothers gone, her sister married and gone South. Her… _Jon_ mourning in the North.

He didn’t keep his promise to watch over her for long after all. 

Jon can’t watch over anyone now.  
  
But Sansa can. And she does.  
  
She watches over Winterfell and the concerns of the northern lords and the rebuilding of the villages.  
  
And she watches over a beautiful babe who gives her a gummy smiles.  
  
Sansa may never marry, never see realized dreams she had as a child.    
  
But what’s to say there could not be _love_.  
  
\- - -

Robb was sick. Coughs rattling his tiny body and sending pangs of fear through her.  
  
All night long she sat by his bed, pushing back his curls and panicking every time at the feel of burning skin.

Children got sick, she knew this—the maester reminded her of this—but he was _so small_ and _so very warm_.

In the morning, his fever broke and she released a choked laugh as he gave her his sweet smile.

For the next week, she carried the child around with her, only relenting him to his nurse in order to feed.

The tot calmly played in her lap while Sansa went over letters and ledgers and listened to her advisors.  

If anyone found it unbecoming of the Lady of Winterfell carrying the babe around the castle, no one said anything. They only smiled fondly at two of them.  
  
\- - -

“Ma - ma” Robb called to her at night. He must have picked up the sounds from his nursemaid’s children.

She sits by his bed, fighting an urge to weep.  

“I’m not your mother, my sweet boy. Your mother was…”  
  
She swallows back ill feelings; it hardly matters now.

So she whispers to him a fairytale of a beautiful young girl, with long flowing golden hair and a strong will, who had three powerful dragons.

 _Your mama might not be with you, but I’ll love you enough for her._  
   
\- - -

Jon came back for a visit early.  
  
Could not stay away from his boy.  
  
His eyes—it was always his overly expressive eyes—held his pain when he said goodbye again.  
  
He grasped her hands tightly, pressing a kiss to them.  
  
_“Thank you, Sansa”_  
  
\- - -

Months later, Sansa knew what would happen next. What would _have to happen next_.

Jon returned again, his son sleepily rested on his lap but his chubby hands still reached for Sansa.

Jon had come to tell her he’s taking Robb away. Going South for good now. Taking his son with him.

The anger and bile and sorrow rose in Sansa like storm waves.  
  
He’s my son. _Mine_.

She might never have another but even if she had ten more—Robb was hers. He had left the boy in her arms to care for and love and he would just take him away?

Sansa will live to regret this, but at least she’ll live.

(She can’t be expected to do so without her son.)

((How many things will be taken from her? How long her sentence for girlhood frivolousness?))

Jon Snow did not love Sansa like he once loved his Targaryen queen.

But he _could_ marry her.


	2. Chapter 2

He wants take his son South.

He is tired, he wants to feel the sun, watch the boy grow somewhere safe, teach him to ride, _live in peace_. 

But doesn’t her peace matter?

Sansa can offer him something better. A marriage alliance that would give any sensible man pause. (Sensible being the operative word.)

“I am the last Stark, and you can take the house name. It is not much of a stretch. It was your mother’s after all. And you can give it to Robb. Solidify the Starks in the North.”

He avoids her eyes

“You were my _sister_.”

She raises an eyebrow as if to point out the obvious but instead opts for, “But I am only you cousin.”

He grunts in response.

She lifts her chin and tries again. “There’s nowhere safer for us in the world. You can be Lord of Winterfell. It’s not the Iron Throne, but I do believe it might be worth more to you.”

He only shakes his head once, _**no**_.

“It is a simple solution and it is practical. I am not trying to trap you, I am giving you _Winterfell_ , Jon.”

 _Don’t deny you always wanted_ it goes without saying.

“There is _nothing_ I want here.”

She has no other tools, nothing else in her arsenal. She cannot seduce or allure—not Jon, not any man truly.

She’s only held together by corsets and chainmail. Her knees go weak; struggling to stay standing. She feels herself scratch for something more. To dig into him.

“You could have your choice of young maidens, but what is the guarantee they’ll love Robb as I do? Would you force your son to have your childhood?”

It is low, and she feels his anger building but what choice does she have? He has to agree.  

“I have no plans to marry.”

 _He’s not going to listen_ , the realization dawns.  

"You would take Robb away from me?” Her voice almost a whisper.

“You are _**not his mother**_ , Sansa.” He practically growled. (Or was it a dragon’s roar?)

She whips back as if experiencing a physical blow.

(Would it be so terrible? To be married to her?)

She feels herself becoming alarmingly pathetic and desperate—reminiscent more of her aunt than her lady mother.

So she builds back her protective layer of ice speaking precisely, “I just want to keep Robb here and safe. I would not… expect you to keep any vows to me. You can go back to free folk women or whores with my blessing.”

His eyes burn, piercing her with hatred, “You think so little of me?”

 _It’s over._ She has lost her son. The pain burns down her throat, coating her chest.

"Why not? You think of me not at all,” she manages before turning and walking out.

\- - -

She had told her father she would love her Prince Aemon as much as Queen Naerys. But no knight will protect Sansa’s heart from this. She would never have an Aemon care for her, she could not even get an _Aegon_  

She had once been so sure that, if nothing else, Jon would keep her safe. She never thought he would be the one to make the cruelest blow.

She feels _weak, weak, weak_.

She needs to get out of bed.

She should not be reminding those in Winterfell, the soldiers, the Northern Lords and banner men, that their Warden was little more than a very young woman.

She should be dressed and robed and surveying the rebuilding in winter town.

Instead she buries herself under her furs.

She planned on taking Robb to see the newly born foals today, she could imagine his delighted giggles, his face wrinkling as he petted the baby fur for the first time.

“Mama, soft!” she could practically hear in her mind.

She should spend the last days she has left with Robb, holding him close to remember the feel of her boy.

Instead she’ll remove herself from him cold. An easy break. He’ll forget her—lost in his father’s attentions and soon enough Sansa will probably be replaced by another woman.

And the pain will eventually heal over. Leaving yet another scar.

She would pray for solace, for strength, but she is not sure if the gods remember her.

She hears her father’s voice, promising her a high lord worthy of her. (Worthy, she was hardly worth much now. Not even with the dowry of Winterfell.)

She remembers the vow her husband would be “ _brave and gentle and strong_.”

She had only wanted to be a great lady, to love her husband and have his children.

That was one type of love her years since leaving Winterfell had shown her at least.

She had seen the great love mothers have for their children. Her own lady mother’s fierce protectiveness of her eldest son and attempts to save her daughters.

Even in Cersei Lannister, who was right after all. Love makes you _weak_. Love only your children she had warned. In that a mother has no choice.  
                                                                   
(If Sansa had any choice in loving Robb—a little boy with her beloved brother’s name and a spirit reminiscent of the family she had lost and a smile truly his own—she was not aware of it.)  
  
It wasn’t the type of love great songs were sung about, but it was the type of love she thought she might be granted.

\- - -

She tried to stay away. But she needed one last moment.

Robb cried in joy when he saw her enter his room, lifting his arms towards her. And she lost any guard she developed over the past few days.

She sat by the fire, holding his precious warmth against her. Left kisses in his hair.

She'll never feel this peace again. Gods, how was supposed to survive this?

_I love you so much, Robb. Please remember that._

She sees Jon observing them in the doorway, and she tenses as he moves toward her.

“I never expected you to love him.”

Why? Because she has become cold and unfeeling? Because her mother could not love Jon? Is he punishing the daughter in her stead?

“I thought you would leave him to the care of a nursemaid. Sansa… I never meant to hurt you, but that I have… that should tell you what you need to know about me.”

He approaches her, his voice gentle.  

“You don’t want to marry me. You don’t want me here in Winterfell. I am… not a good man. Not anymore. Not the honorable man you deserve. Fath—your Father would not have wanted this.”

She shook her head, “There is much he would not have wanted, but father isn’t here.”  

His gaze follows her hand as she strokes Robb’s curls.

“I can’t leave my son. I want him with me.”

He looked  _so_ _young_ just then. She forgets sometimes how young he still is. How young they _both_ _are_. 

“Then you too can stay.”

“Sansa,” he says softly, kneeling next to her. And for a moment he’s not the man who’s hurt her the most, not a person made cruel by loss, but he’s Jon. The boy she’s known her entire life, the man who tried to protect her once. “I am sorry.”

She nods, feeling tears prickle. _Weak, weak, weak._

“Jon, I know you loved her. I don’t expect anything more, just a chance to keep us together and safe. I don’t _want_ anything more.” 

She feels him shift and sigh, as if he’s reached a conclusion.  

"But you should, Sansa. You  _should_... Sansa, you deserve a chance to marry for love."

She looks down at the sleeping baby Robb. She would be marrying for love though, just a different sort.

"I've married for far less before."

He swallows and then nods.

\- - -

Her third wedding was a simple and quick ceremony, even as the old faith’s go.

There was no one left to walk her down the aisle, no need for a new cloak to drape over her shoulders.

Afterwards there was a small feast—the guests buzzing with curiosity over the unexpected union.

And then she returned to her chamber, and Jon his.

The only moment she clearly recalls from the rushed night was a kiss Jon pressed onto her forehead before they parted ways, _I promise to be a good husband to you_.

\- - -

She knew what she sacrificed, that after hard earned claims she once again relented Winterfell to a man.

She held her son’s hand tightly in hers and told herself this was fine. It was a worthy trade.

Jon was her husband now, and it felt strange but it also felt... _natural_. She might have eventually been encouraged to marry some Northern Lord’s son and this was far preferable.  

A husband who kept to himself, ventured to the woods or the horse stables throughout the day, only seeing her at dinner.

This was the best a marriage she could have hoped to obtain.

He kept to himself, and she was free to continue as she had before.

She did however ask Jon to join her while the people gathered for their monthly grievances and requests that first month.

He was the Lord of Winterfell now. And the people knew it.

If she feared any leftover resentment for claiming for Daenerys or his Targaryen blood, the notion was quickly put to rest.  

As they approached, the men looked only at Jon—and it hurt but she swallows past it. (She knew what this marriage would mean.)

Jon however, deferred to her. Before the next person spoke, he surveyed the room, his voice commanding and his words certain.

“Make sure to ask your Lady.” He turned to look at her. “Winterfell belong to my wife, Sansa.”  
  
\- - -

What did a former heir to the Iron Throne, commander, soldier, and brother of the Night’s Watch do when the fight was over? He rebuilt houses laying bricks himself, practiced swordsmanship with the young boys, discussed crop strategies with farmers, and tickled his son.

(Sometimes he argued with her over the decisions she made, or perhaps more fairly _debated_.)

Months passed and he never took any husbandly rights, but instead spent the evenings with her in the solar before returning to his own chamber.

(She thought this was far better—he would not have to see the scars and marks that hid behind her gowns. She did not have to feel the unwelcome weight of a man.)

(And she would not be compared to his beautiful Targaryen princess with her flawless unmarked skin.)

((His _Queen_ , who he had loved and felt desire for. No, this is much better than she could have hoped for.))

They would read, play with Robb, sometimes smile or argue over forgotten family stories.

After being alone for so long, it felt nice to have him there. It felt comfortable. It felt safe.

It was the type of companionship she and Jon had shared for a short amount of time when they first retook Winterfell.

It felt _nice_.

That night she sang softly brushing Ghost’s fur, stopping when she felt his gaze on him.

Jon was sitting on the floor with Robb playing with wooden toys, but now both father and son were looking at her with twin untidy dark curls and peculiar expressions. 

She was taken aback for a moment. Was Jon _always_ this handsome? (Perhaps not scowling and moping around was a good look for him.) 

She suddenly felt self-conscious, “What? What is it?”

He just shook his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Could you perhaps sing louder?”

\- - -

Robb’s second name day was approaching, and she was unsure what to do.

She wanted to give the boy a small celebration (so he knew how very much loved he was) and the castle deserved a treat of sorts.

But what do you do for a babe whose mother died on the same day?

The mother whose death still drowned his father in grief?

So instead she decided on something simple but nonetheless indulgent.  

Her son loved lemon cakes—he took after her in all the important ways. So she had lemon cakes made for the entirety of the castle.

And three for Robb himself.  

Jon had been gone all day, wandering the woods and she had no plans to interrupt.

He walked in that night as she was placing the cakes in front of their son. She tensed slightly hoping he would not object or grow angry.

Instead a fond smile spreads over his face at the scene in front of him, “Are lemon cakes my son’s favorite or his mother’s?”

She paused for a second, before comprehending that she was the mother he referred to… he had… he had never called her such before.

(She did want Robb to know his real mother, would never let him not know her. But she couldn’t help but smile.)

“Of course he also loves lemon cakes. Our son has good taste.”  

\- - -

She grumbled looking down at her ankle, it was turned in an unfortunate angle.

The hurriedly built roofs in this part of the village proved to be far more unstable than expected, the first rush of snow had slates collapsing as she did her rounds, falling quite dramatically on her leg.

They would have to go back and make sure everything was secure. Thank gods no one had moved into the buildings yet.  

She is still frowning at her leg when she hears a rush of noise, and looks up to see Jon’s horse charging towards her.

He swings off, his voice frantic, “I was looking for you. I was told there was an accident and…”

“It’s nothing, just a small inconvenience.”

But he still looks a harried.

“They should not have bothered you, I am fine,” she says shaking off the dust and cringing a little at the pain of applying mild pressure.

He ignores her lifting her away from the rubble. (She forgets how _strong_ he is sometimes.)  

She sighs when he places her down, “We’ll need to reassess the roofing however. New slates should be able to withstand-”

His arms are on her, patting, and surveying for non-existent damage to her person.

It’s growing tedious, when she needs to inspect the actual damage.

“Stop hovering, Jon,” she snaps.

“ _ **No**_ ,” he snaps back, a strange glint in his eyes.

“I always leave Robb with his nurse when I come here, you needn’t have worried.”

His hands fall on her shoulders, he gives her a light shake.

“I needn’t worry?” his voice is hoarse.

Then she feels a firm kiss to her forehead

“Sansa, you are my wife.”

A kiss to her cheek. Kisses left along her jaw. One placed on her neck.   
  
"You are my _wife_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that unraveled unexpectedly. (This needs a good round of editing for sure.)
> 
> Epilogue to follow. They deserve a little poorly-written smut. 
> 
> Let's be friends on tumblr! I'm it-was-so-human.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue rated ~M for a questionable attempt at smut and awkward indulgent fluff.

For the past month, Jon and Sansa have been... _flirting_.

Shamelessly.

They're behaving like lovestruck youths... it is as if he is _courting_ _her_.

Some mornings he brings her _flowers_.

(She tries and fails to picture a grumpy young Jon Snow bringing her flowers, " _red like her hair_.")

And at night, he brings her lemon cakes to the solar.  

And they've proceeded to kissing like reckless adolescents in corners of the castle. Behaving not at all as they should as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

It was _strange_ feeling so light hearted. But it was hard not to feel _free_. Winterfell was growing stronger, the North appeased and stable. And her husband of convenience smiled at her easily and readily and often.

And he teased her to giggles.

And surprised her before meetings with his lips pressed below her ear, sending shivers through her.

And then when Robb is tucked away in bed, they _kissed_. Not fast nor frantic, but slow deep kisses as if he was languidly exploring her and she him. (But sometimes frantic one, leaving them both breathless.)

One night he broke away, his forehead resting against hers.

“I may not be worthy of this, but I’m going to try my best to deserve it.”  

\- - -

They both anticipated _this_ was coming, so when Jon suggested they retire early that night she readily agreed.

And then he was in her chamber. Her chamber. At night, with her, for the first time.

Her robe was quickly disregarded between kisses.

"Gods, you're so _pretty_ Sansa," he breathes. "You're so so pretty."

She had been called the word so many times that pretty started to feel like a taunt… a silly simpering nothing of a girl… but the way he said it with reverence... she felt _powerful_.

His hands cup her breasts, thumbs stroking her hardened tips.

He paused to lay kisses on them, experimentally taking one into his mouth, the sensation unfurling warmth in her belly and causing her to release a small moan.

She was lost in the heady feel of his hands on her and his gentle words.

"My pretty wife, my strong, brilliant, wife," he whispers.

(Who would have guessed Jon Snow could be so romantic?)

He moves to lift her shift and she grabs his wrists tightly. She didn't prepare for this. (Had forgotten everything in the rush of his affection and she didn't want his desire for her to end...)

Her voice is quiet, barely a whisper, "Please leave it on. The scars... they're so ugly."

"I have scars too," he whispers back.

"Your scars are... on you they're _manly_ ," but she releases her grip on him. This past month had been too much of a dream to be true, it was time to wake up.

He pulls off her shift, and breathes deeply.

She feels herself flush under his gaze cringing at the thought of white marks and puckered red lines...

"I know, scars are unbecoming on a lady,"

" _ **No**_ , Sansa. They're beautiful. So beautiful."'

He kisses her deeply, whispering against her lips, how he's sorry for the pain, but so grateful for the scars because they meant she was here now.

He carries her to bed and kisses his way down her neck, her breasts, her scars, down her stomach, down… _down_.

She tenses slightly, her breathing hitches… and she tenses. She closes her eyes in embarrassment over her body’s response.

“I’m sor-” she starts. 

"Shhh, don't be scared Sansa. Please. Not with me. Never with me."

He slowly coaxes her legs open, placing a kiss to her center which was then replaced by the feel of his tongue. Continuing his exploration lazily... tenderly.

She moans as he finds that pleasurable nub, his attentions creating a delicious feeling.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Yes." Yes, yes, _yes_.

She arches herself closer to him, to the building pressure.

"That's my girl," he grins against her.

Close, _so close_. Oh, so _close_.

"Jon!" She rasps as she dissolves in pleasure.

He moves to lie next to her, smiling.

"We don't have to do anything more tonight, love." He cups her cheek, his thumb stroking her face, "We have a lifetime."

(His eyes light up as if he himself had just realized that fact, that they had  _a_ _lifetime_.)

But she shakes her head violently in opposition to his hateful suggestion. She didn’t want to wait.

"No, I want you. I _need_ you."

She pulls him towards her, and his shirt is pulled off. His trousers removed at rapid speed.

She feels empowered. He hisses as she takes him in her hand, placing him against her center. She gasps as he presses into her and-

 _Oh_ it was a lot, and he gives her a moment to adjust to the feel, and then he starts moving and it felt, oh it felt _right_.

And he moves faster, taken by his own need and once again she's closer and closer. Her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his arms.

"Jon... my love..." she gasps as the sensation snaps and breaks apart.

And he falls very shortly after, calling her name before collapsing softly on top of her. His weight on her was _lovely_.

His weight on top of her was _lovely_.

She feels tears building at the corner of her eyes. (She was worried this type of pleasure was forever stolen from her.)

And now he's hovering over her.

"I’m sorry it was… I promise it'll get better, Sansa." Gods, he's so earnest.

She wipes the wetness from her eyes,

"Really? I mean, it was quite good already." Her flush furthering under his now amused look.

“Practice will only make it better,” he chuckles.

"Don't tease Jon, you know I've never done _that_ like _that_ before."

“Well, I can't say I have either,” he shrugs.

She released a snort, but he only shakes his head.

“Don't be unkind, I've never made love to my wife before. It… it’s incomparable. I feel…   _I feel everything_.”  

(The silly declaration is so achingly romantic, her heart swells.)

His head is now buried in her neck, and she strokes his damp curls.

It's a comfortable silence that he interrupts, “We might have a babe now."

"If we are so blessed. I wouldn't mind that, and Robb could use some company," she muses absently.

"Sansa... once you have your own true born children.. you might feel differently towards Robb."

She stops her stroking, her voice stern, unyielding.

"Jon, don't you dare. Don't you dare ruin this.  You know that's not possible."

"It's just... I know... a true born child? It’s  _different_."

She sighs.

"None of our children will ever know a difference. There will never be a doubt in their mind how much their mother loves them. How much _both_ their parents love them."

She feels him hesitantly nod in agreement, but her heart clenches at the reluctance.

"I'm _sorry_ , Jon. I'm sorry I treated you less when we were children, but you know that Robb will never feel that way."  

He murmurs against her neck, "I _know_ , I do. I'm sorry."

A beat and she offers some consolation, "In a way though, isn't it better I never truly considered you my brother?"

A moment.

And he falls back on his pillow with a dramatic groan.

She smiles at him, "you know, with all things considered—"

And he reacts with a growl, pouncing and tickling her sides until she repents.

After which he wraps his arms around her, pulling her towards him, nestling her back to his front. She feels warm, _safe_. Holding her close, he whispers in her ear.

"My pretty wife, my strong, brilliant _infuriating_ wife. Gods, I adore you."

\- - -

  
Robb peers in reluctantly from the chamber doorway.

“Come here my, sweet boy,” she call to him.

She exchanges a smile with Jon as he ushers their son closer, her husband who looks so exhausted and disheveled as if he had delivered the babe himself.

(Instead of simply frantically pacing the chamber and harassing the poor maester.)

((She could have been scared but she glowed too much these past months to consider it. And she assured him that she was the right age, that she was healthy, it was a time of peace with no added stresses save a hovering husband.))

She has Jon lift Robb onto the bed and she tucks the boy carefully next to her, holding him close with her free arm.

Robb curiously examines the tiny bundle she has cradled against her.

A tiny wrinkly red-faced precious babe.  

"Meet your baby brother, sweet one."

Robb’s dark violet eyes shifted quickly from the baby, to her, then back to the baby.

He looked up as if to say that this tiny bundle didn't look anything like any dueling partner he was promised, "He's so _little_ , mama."

"That's why he has you," Jon said affectionately. "You'll protect him, won’t you?"

The little boy nodded his assent seriously, before cuddling closer to his mother and reaching a gentle hand to stroke his new brother’s forehead.

Sansa catches her husband’s eyes and they’re _glittering_.

He can only shake his head before planting a firm fond kiss onto her forehead.

This is what they had fought for all these years. Fought armies, and palace intrigues, and myths, and invaders, and each other, and _themselves_.

 _This_ moment.

_A lifetime of this._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and your kind responses! I really hope to revisit this world again.
> 
> Let's be friends on tumblr! I'm it-was-so-human


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